"A momentary affliction," Pickles said off-handedly. "Name the time and we shall be there."
"Can you make it today at twelve-thirty?"
"I think so, but I'll have to double-check with my, uh, contact."
"By all means do so, Pickles. I'm available today, and also tomorrow, although I would prefer today. By the way, did you happen to mention anything to this gentleman about what I told you…regarding the president?
"You mean those threats to kill Truman?"
"Right."
"Of course not. I'm no blabbermouth, Snap. And I figure everything between us is confidential."
"You figure right."
Fifteen minutes later, Pickles called again. "Today it is," he said. "I told our lunch companion that we would meet at twelve-thirty at that hangout of yours."
At twelve-twenty, I was in the same booth in Parker's Grill where Pickles and I had previously had lunch. Twenty-five minutes and two cups of coffee later, I considered ordering from the take-out counter and hauling a sandwich back to the office when a panting Pickles Podgorny and another man, a thickset, swarthy character wearing a pork-pie hat, spun through the revolving door. Pickles threw me a limp wave and a lopsided grin as he shuffled down the aisle. I made a production out of studying my wrist watch.
"Okay, so we're just a little bit on the late side," Pickles proclaimed, panting. "But my God, the subway was running so slowly today, Snap. Must have been track work."
I waved the comment away, studying his companion. "And you, sir, are…?" I asked.
"Just call me Lou," the man replied, nodding somberly. He had coal-black eyes and brows to match, along with a day-old beard suggesting that, if allowed to grow out, it would be equally dark.
At my urging, they sat opposite me. A waitress I didn't recognize poured coffee and took our orders. After she left, Pickles leaned forward and said, "Lou is not his name, of course, but that is neither here nor there and need not concern us. I don't know it myself. What I can tell you about him, and he has given me the approval to say this–" Pickles turned to Lou, who nodded. "–is that he is a member of a group known as the Maccabees, of which you may have heard."
"I don't think so," I said. "Or if I have heard of them, it's gone out of my head. Sorry."
Lou cleared his throat, a signal he was preparing to speak. "Ever heard of Judas Maccabaeus?" he asked.
"Uh-uh. Is he any relation to the Judas who ratted on Jesus?"
"Far from it!" Lou snapped. "He is a hero to Jews. He was a warrior in the 100s B.C. who seized the temple in Jerusalem back from the Selucid descendants of what was left of Alexander the Great's empire. Hannukah is the celebration of his victory."
"Doesn't speak well for my Biblical education," I told him.
"You won't find the Maccabees story in every Bible," Lou said as our coffee cups were filled. "However, it is in something called the Apocrypha, which is a group of books that fall between the Old and New Testaments. Apparently, centuries ago, some of the church fathers decided these stories, for whatever reasons, did not merit getting into their Bibles."
"Too bad. Sounds to me like somebody back then made a bad call."
Lou shrugged. "Maybe. Just for the record, George Handel, the great composer to the English king centuries ago, saw fit to write an oratorio about it, which is one of the great pieces of European art music."
"Well, I'm certainly getting an education here," I replied. "But in the interest of time, tell me what your Maccabees organization is all about."
He looked around as if he might be overheard and leaned forward. "We are what some people might call a vigilante group, although we prefer to think of ourselves as a line of defense against anti-Semitism."
He gestured toward Pickles, then turned back to me. "Your friend here told me you are interested in learning about a group calling itself The New Reich."
"That's right, I am. What can you tell me about them?"
He took a sip of coffee and with a steady hand returned his cup to its saucer before answering. "Mr. Malek, I am a member of The New Reich."
My shocked expression evoked a tight smile from the man calling himself Lou. "Perhaps I should be precise," he added. "It is more accurate to say that I have infiltrated this Nazi cell."
"To what end?"
"Why else?" he replied as if the answer were evident. "To find out everything I–we–can about them, and to stop them."
The waitress came with our lunches, so the brakes got put on the conversation until she refilled our coffee cups and moved off to another booth.
"Sounds fairly dangerous," I offered.
Lou nodded as he took a bite out of his hamburger. "It is. But then, what are the alternatives? They think I'm German, of course, and I am–both my parents were born there. But I'm also a Jew, which would, well…"
"Which would get you tossed out of The New Reich on your ass," Pickles suggested.
"Or worse. Lots worse," Lou said.
"Tell me about them," I put in. "How did you worm your way in, who are they, how many of them are there, what are they planning?"
He held up a palm. "Please, if you will, one question at a time. First, another member of the Maccabees learned about The New Reich through something he'd overheard in a North Side tavern–a passing remark about a 'bunch of goddamn Nazis,' or words to that effect. He did some 'probing,' shall we say, and found there was indeed a fascist organization that, while small, was looking to grow and to spread the filth Hitler had sown. Well, we–that is, some of my fellow Maccabees and me–thought it would be a fine idea to infiltrate this outfit. I'm told I don't look particularly Jewish, at least not in the stereotypical sense held by so many gentiles, so I volunteered to be the infiltrator."
"As I said before, sounds dangerous."
"Life is dangerous," Lou remarked off-handedly. "The tricky part was getting them to approach me. I'm fairly new to the Maccabees, so the chances of me being recognized as one of them by these Nazis was slim. Anyway, a few weeks back I started going to the bar in a German restaurant on the North Side, which is supposed to be a hangout for Nazi sympathizers. The place is decorated like something right out of Munich, or at least the way I visualize Munich. It even has German drinking songs on the jukebox. I've never consumed so much beer in my life.
"After I'd been in there a dozen times or so, the regulars and bartenders started treating me like a regular. When a Jewish joke got told at the bar–and there were lots of them–I laughed as hard as anyone in the joint, even though I wanted to start throwing punches at all of their fat, leering Germanic faces."
"Good thing you didn't," Pickles remarked.
For a moment, Lou looked almost sheepish but quickly recovered. "Well, then I started telling Jewish jokes myself, to ingratiate myself with these Teutonic bastards. And it gets worse."
"I don't follow you," I said.
"These…people…decided that I was worthy of their organization, but like with their other members, I had to…prove myself. Sort of an initiation." The words were coming hard for Lou. I waited.
He coughed. "I had to…paint a swastika on a synagogue up on the North Side that was a block from a police station."
"And you did?"
He nodded, looking down at his plate. "Right on the front door."
"What is your ultimate goal in all of this?" I asked.
"We, the Maccabees, want to catch these guys planning something big, really big, and then hand them over to the cops, who apparently haven't been much interested in them up to now. I think we're really close."
"How so?"
Lou frowned. "I don't have any details yet, but now that I've been going to their meetings these last couple of weeks, I'm picking up strong hints that something's brewing. They keep talking about 'the big splash' that they're going to make."
"And you have no idea what this is?"
He shook his head. "The others in these meetings are pretty closed-mouthed. It's almost like they're talking in some sort of code, altho
ugh maybe it's because I'm still so new to the group."
"So you think they're suspicious of you?" I asked.
"I believe they act this way each time somebody new joins them. Another new man has come in after me."
"How many attend these meetings? And where are they held?"
Lou lowered his voice again. "There's six, seven, sometimes eight of us. And only first names ever get used. I'd rather not mention the name of the restaurant, but that's where we meet–in a paneled back room that just has a big table and chairs, nothing else. Not even any pictures on the walls."
"So the owner of the place is in on all this?"
"You'd have to think so, but he doesn't join us, although I've seen him in the bar greeting people. At least he's the one who regulars say owns the joint."
"Does The New Reich have a leader?"
"The guy who runs the meetings is named Earl, at least that's what he calls himself. For all I know, nobody there is using his real name."
"Do you have any idea what the others do for a living?"
"No. Nothing is ever discussed about what kind of lives we have outside of the organization. I can't tell you if any of them are married or have families or where they live. They all look to be in their thirties and forties, and if I were to guess, I'd say most of them are blue collar workers. They seem like it anyway."
"Do you get the sense that you're going to learn more soon about this 'big splash' they've referred to?"
"I…think so," Lou said. "Right now, I'm doing a lot more listening than talking."
"I suppose you knew about some of the Reich's other apparent activities, before you joined them?"
Lou looked grim. "The killings of the cop and the fireman? And the rabbi who got shot but survived? From what I've picked up in the meetings, they were responsible for all three shootings, although nobody has specifically claimed that he pulled the trigger."
I nodded. "You could turn them in to the cops for those jobs."
"I could, but I've got the feeling from the sound of it that the next thing they're planning will be enough to finish this bunch for good."
"And you have no clue at all as to what this big job is?"
"No, not yet. They've been very circumspect in the meetings I've attended."
"Okay, but it's risky to wait. If you blow the whistle on them now, they won't be able to pull anything else off at all, including whatever this big job is," I argued.
"I'll take my chances," Lou said grimly. "Hey, thanks very much for the lunch. I gotta run." Pickles and I watched as he strode out of Parker's.
"I have the feeling Lou didn't want to discuss the situation any further," I told Pickles, who was chomping on a dill wedge.
"Agreed. I notice you avoided telling him about the Truman business."
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. I'm still not sure our Lou, or whatever his name may be, is all that he claims. How did you happen to find him?"
"Through an old and dear friend who I happen to know belongs to this Maccabees outfit. We were in a poker game together–"
"Of course you were."
"Don't interrupt, Tribune hotshot. We were in this game together and after it broke up, I started asking him about the Maccabees and whether he was aware of any specific Nazi groups around town. He told me he knew about several small pockets of fascists and anti-Semites scattered around the city, most of them made up of only two or three morons. Then he said there was another, slightly larger group called The New Reich.
"Being a good reporter–after all, you're the one who trained me–I pressed him about this bunch, telling him I had a friend in the newspaper business who wanted to do an exposé on hate groups. I of course did not name you or your employer."
"Of course not."
"So he gets real interested, see, and tells me about this fella, Lou, who had recently joined the Maccabees and had volunteered to infiltrate The New Reich. I got him to introduce me to Lou and I told him about you. And here we are."
"Pickles, has it occurred to you that Lou may be a member of The New Reich who has infiltrated the Maccabees, not the other way around?"
"Huh?"
"Okay, first, we have only Lou's word that he's really Jewish. Second, you say he's a brand new member of the Maccabees, a Johnny-come-lately. Third, he didn't seem all that upset about the killings of the young cop and the fireman and the shooting of the rabbi. Fourth, he didn't appear to be in any hurry to stop their so-called big job, which we can assume is the killing of the president. And fifth, he didn't want to tell us the location of the German restaurant where The New Reich meets. Hell, there must be at least a dozen German eateries on the North Side."
"So you're suggesting Lou might be a double-agent?"
"Double-agent. Very good, Pickles! Where'd you learn the lingo?"
"What? You think I just got off the boat? Hey, even I go to the movies once in a while, and I love spy pictures. You seem awfully suspicious about Lou."
"Now there's the pot calling the kettle black," I told him. "You are 'Mr. Suspicion' personified. Aren't you the one who said you wouldn't play poker with your own grandmother because you were sure she was palming cards?"
"Well, dammit, she was. You never met my grandmother. She could second-deal and palm better than anybody I ever met. And that includes the legendary Six Fingers Monahan, about whom many great tales have been told."
"Okay, I'll concede the point about your grandmother. But I still don't trust this Lou character. Do you know how to get hold of the guy again? He bolted out of here before I could find out how to contact him. If he is legit, which I am beginning to doubt, he can help us head off any attempt on Truman."
Pickles tugged at the bill of his cap. "The guy who put me on to Lou will know how to find him."
"By the way, can you even trust that man?"
"Arnie Kravitz? Damn right I can. I've known him for twenty years or more. And I helped him out of a tight spot once, a real tight spot. The details aren't important."
"I'll take your word for that, Pickles. I suspect you've become something of an expert on tight spots over the years."
"No comment, bloodhound. Now if you'll excuse me, I must leave for an important engagement."
"An engagement with a fifty-two-card deck and some plastic chips, perhaps?" I asked, but Pickles headed for the door without looking back or acknowledging my question.
Chapter Fourteen
C3 O1 G2 E1 N1 T1
(adj) convincing or believable by virtue of forcible, clear, or incisive presentation
As we neared Election Day, all of the local papers steadily increased their political coverage. It had been general knowledge that both Truman and Dewey would make swings through Chicago sometime during the final days of the campaign, but the surprise came one morning in late October when both the Trib and Sun-Times ran wire stories reporting that the candidates would be here on successive days in the final week–and following virtually the same schedule.
Truman would roll in by train on Monday, eight days before the election; check into a downtown hotel; have dinner there with big-bucks backers; and lead a motorcade west on
Madison Street to the Chicago Stadium, where he would deliver a speech. The next day, Tom Dewey would duplicate the same general plan: come in by rail; settle into a hotel; sup with some of his strongest (read richest) supporters; parade out Madison Street; and give a speech at the Stadium. "Occurs to me that crime in this city is bound to be on the upswing for those two days," Packy Farmer observed between drags on one of his misshapen little hand-rolled smokes. "Hellfire, you can bet that every damn cop on the force is going to be assigned to help protect our noble candidates from harm."
"Are you suggesting, sir, that the city's miscreants will take advantage of this unique situation?" Dirk O'Farrell inquired, puffing on his own cigarette, which was of the store-bought variety.
"You're damn right I am!" Packy roared. "Shit, if I were of a law-breaking nature, I'd be up to all manner of mischief while the pol
ice department had the entire force protecting Harry and Tom."
"Mr. Farmer has a cogent point," Anson Masters ventured. "One indeed worthy of pursuing. Might I suggest, Snap, that on your visit this morning to Chief Fahey, you press him on any concerns he may have regarding the deployment of his troops as well as those of the uniformed force."
"It may surprise you, Anson, to learn that the first portion of your suggestion already was in my plans, although I doubt very much that the good chief will venture an opinion where the uniforms are concerned. As you are well aware, that is not within his province. I also suspect Fahey will be circumspect about how he will deploy his own men when the candidates come to town. Why give away your plans if somebody out there is ready to take advantage of the information? A good general doesn't tell the enemy what his strategy will be."
"Good point, Snap," O'Farrell said. "But ask him anyway, okay? You never know what you might get."
"So good of you to advise me, Dirk. Perhaps you'd like to come along to make sure I pose the right questions. I would welcome your company."
"Uh, thanks anyway, but I've got my own beat to cover," he muttered. Dirk, like the others in the press room, preferred to let me deal with Fergus Fahey. For one thing, they all seemed to think Fahey was a tough nut. For another, none of them wanted any responsibility whatever for dealing with the Detective Bureau, the biggest beat in the building. From their collective point of view, it entailed too much work–work they were more than happy to let me do, especially since I would be sharing with them any information I came up with.
I breezed into Fahey's anteroom to find Elsie brewing a pot of coffee. "Oho, what's this?" I asked, slapping a hand to my forehead. "A second pot and it's only nine-twenty-five? I know this is great coffee, but what's he doing in there, chugging the stuff?"
"Pretty much," she said. "Plus he's been here since around seven."
"My Lord, has the poor fellow been asking for me?"
"To be brutally honest…no. But I for, one, am glad to see you, big guy."
"That more than makes up for it. Shall I knock?"
A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery) Page 11